Gone from Home
by Kaira101
Summary: Many seem to forget that every hero was once a child, innocent and naive to the world around them. Some seem to forget that these children once had heroes of their own, someone to look up to and guide them. Ulfric's hero was one who not many would expect, and even fewer could possibly approve of him. What happens when Ulfric's hero is an Altmer?
1. Prologue: The Meeting

"Oh."

It seemed like such an inappropriate yet evident reaction to such a situation. The Nord child sat there, face wet and hot from crying and screaming, his foot lodged beneath the tree's root, which clasped tightly and stably around the child's leg. His clothes were in tatters, filthy and torn. His blonde hair resembled that of a birds nest, and his bright blue eyes were red-rimmed. Overall, Mithllon found himself staring at a very unhappy youth.

The child turned at the sound of Mithllon's quiet voice and his face twisted with anger and disgust. The Altmer was accustomed to such looks cast upon him by Nords, so he kept his expression neutral. The child regarded him for a few moments before realizing his glare would not drive the elf away. He busied himself with struggling with his captor.

Mithllon watched him for another moment, curious. Then, realizing he has yet to aid the child, slid off Drastíll, his boots crunching the dried leaves beneath them. The child jumped, startled at the sound, before turning towards Mithllon once again. His expression matched that of a rabbit caught in a trap, watching as the predator looms closer. The Altmer frowned.

"Be calm. I am here to aid you."

The child stared at him, his blue eyes wide with surprise. Then the orbs narrowed suspiciously and the child spoke. "No, you are not."

Mithllon was startled by this. He does not expect a child to contain such hatred of elves at such a young age. It was not uncommon for Nords to hate elves, but this young child contained as much bitterness as an adult. Mithllon privately scolded the parents.

The Altmer lingered a meter away from the child, before settling himself down onto the grass. His lips formed a thin line as he mused upon how to approach the Nord youth. His eyes then glittered and he smiled at the child. The boy did not expect this.

"Well, young king, never in my life have I met such a brave Nord, who scowls at the presence of an Elf. I shall watch your movements and note them, for this is a rare opportunity to see the prowess of Nords."

* * *

His daddy told him to stay away from Elves. He told him they were dangerous and mean, and did not like Nords. So Nords should not like Elves.

Ulfric did not know if he liked this elf or not. The elf called him 'young king', which made his chest swell with pride. As Ulfric wiggled his foot trapped beneath the tree's root, the elf watched quietly. He wasn't being mean at all.

Ulfric sniffed as he wriggled his leg, vainly pulling it toward him. He was frustrated to the verge of tears, and he would not have this elf see him cry. Instead, his lower lip curled over his upper lip, and his fingernails dug into the earth as he pulled harder. Again, the bark did not budge. Ulfric glared at the Altmer for a moment, expecting a chuckle or sneer from the elf. His expression remained as neutral as it had been, his green eyes glittering beneath thin black eyebrows.

Ulfric squirmed under the attention. This was embarrassing; to be trapped with his foot in the clutches of a tree root was not how he wanted a stranger to find him. Ulfric grinded his teeth together as his face grew hot and pulled with all his might. With a spike of pain and a tear of cloth, the Nord's leg was free. But he did not smile triumphantly.

He whimpered beneath his breath as he gingerly touched his leg. His trousers were torn from the knee to the ankle to expose a long cut in his skin, which bled. He watched as his skin turned purple and stung profoundly. His eyes watered and he wanted to cry. Then he heard the shift of leaves beside him and he silenced his whimpers.

"You are hurt." The elf whispered, eyes studying his leg. Ulfric slid it away to keep the elf's gaze away, but the movement sent a jolt of electricity along his foot, and he winced.

"No I'm not." He said defiantly, glaring at the elf with venom. He didn't want anyone but his daddy to touch his leg.

The elf's eyebrows rose to the sky at the Nord's retort. "Oh? But a mighty king cannot enter battle injured. How will he protect his subjects?"

"He will bite his tongue and bare it," Ulfric said. He had heard his daddy say that one time when he came home. His mommy was horrified by the bruise in which rested on the left eye of the proud Nord, and asked a similar question. Ulfric did not entirely understand it, but it sounded mature to him.

The elf frowned, eyes still fixated on Ulfric's injury. He moved closer. "Allow me to examine it, young king. There comes a time when a king gains trust between his subjects when he shares his vulnerability." Ulfric did not know what vulnerability meant, but the elf's quiet and patient voice was persuasive, and he found himself allowing the elf to touch him. His fingers were gentle and cautious, pressing on swollen areas and making note of the amount of pain inflicted.

"Your ankle is sprained," the elf said, giving the final diagnosis. "Your cut also requires seaming. This will take just a moment." He rose his hand and Ulfric watched in horror as a bright light burst from it and twirled towards him, hissing quietly as its body crackled in the light. He shrieked and pulled away, slamming into the tree and shielding himself with his arms. The light vanished instantly as the elf's expression turned into surprise. "What-"

"Don't touch me! I don't want it near me! Keep it away, keep it away!" He covered his head with his arms as he shouted at the elf, legs curled in front of him. The elf stilled, arm still raised. But there was no more light in his hand.

"I must heal you or you cannot walk properly."

"I don't care! Daddy said no magic! I don't like magic!"

The elf sighed, his brow wrinkled as he stared at the Nord. "What would you have me do?" Ulfric was silent, watching the elf, making certain he would not cast anymore magic. Daddy had shown him magic once, and told him how dangerous it was. He told him never to use or touch magic. That was also another reason that his daddy didn't like elves. Was he not supposed to like this elf? The elf's eyes glittered once again and he approached Ulfric, lips poised to speak.

"Daddy told me not to like elves and not to like magic." The elf's mouth clamped shut. There was a moment of silence. Ulfric watched as the elf stood up, turned, and left.

Ulfric's jaw fell. He didn't want to be left alone! He didn't like this elf, but that didn't be he disliked the elf either! Ulfric opened his mouth to shout to him, but realized the elf stopped next to a horse, which was hidden in the shadows of the trees.

The horse was pretty. Its white pelt glistened in the sunlight, and its black hooves practically disappeared in the black mud. There were bags tied to its saddle. The elf opened one and pulled out a blanket and a water skin. He then walked back to Ulfric and laid the things beside him.

"Now, because you wish me to not use magic, it seems I must tend to you the traditional Nordic way, yes?" He reach toward Ulfric's leg, but the little hand caught his wrist.

"Promise not to use magic?"

The elf smiled. "Promise."

Ulfric was still not convinced. "Cross your heart." The elf looked genuinely puzzled at this, so Ulfric provided a demonstration. He dragged one finger from his right shoulder to the left side of his waist. Then he dragged his finger from his left shoulder to the right side of his waist. This indicated a cross. Then, he said with an utterly serious tone, "Cross your heart like this."

To Ulfric's bewilderment, the elf's eyes shifted into understanding before glinting with mirth as he repeated what Ulfric had done. "I cross my heart." Ulfric was satisfied, so he allowed the elf to tend to his 'wound'. The elf began to tear the blanket into strips before watering one down and tapping the cut gently, cleaning it. He tore off the excess cloth from Ulfric's tattered trousers and discarded them. He then found a straight, firm stick, which he set against Ulfric's sprained ankle, before wrapping the strips around the stick until his ankle was completely covered. He stepped back to examine his handiwork, apparently satisfied.

Ulfric found he could not move his ankle in anyway, the stiff binding hindering his movements. The elf helped him stand, and just as he was about to lean on his ankle, the elf said sternly, "Do not put any weight on it. It will take time to heal; perhaps a week or so and you will be healed."

Ulfric glared at him angrily. "If I can't walk on it, how can I get home?"

The elf smiled gently. "You Highness, you will need an escort to accompany you to your kingdom. Where do you live?"

Ulfric smiled proudly. "I live in Windhelm. My daddy is the Bear of Eastmarch. He's the jarl."

The elf froze. He stared more intently at Ulfric. "The jarl? Of Windhelm?" He repeated. Ulfric nodded, beaming.

"Yes. My daddy is really brave."

The elf smiled again, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "I'm sure he is. Tell me, young one, do you realize where you are?"

Ulfric frowned. "No," he admitted. "The men didn't tell me where we were going either."

This time, the elf's tone changed entirely. It was far more stern and serious. "Tell me about these men."

Ulfric looked at the ground. He felt like he was in trouble. "They told me they were daddy's friends. They wanted me to come with them so I could train. Daddy always talked with me about training, so I went with them. We went camping and they showed me how to make a fire. I got to sleep in a tent and everything. But then they started talking about people searching for them, so we ran. I fell and got stuck in the tree. They didn't help me; they just kept running."

"What did these men look like?"

"I don't know. They wore dark cloaks all the time and I couldn't see their faces."

"I see..." The elf stared into the sky thoughtfully, and Ulfric shuffled nervously. The silence was long and uncomfortable. He searched for a way to break it.

"I'm Ulfric."

The elf was pulled from his trance as he looked back at Ulfric. He smiled kindly at the boy.

"And I am Mithllon. A pleasure to meet you."


	2. Chapter 1: Magic

Chapter 1: Magic

"Here we stand at a three-day's ride from Windhelm. To reach your home swiftly, we could ride Drastíll across the Eastmarch throughout day and night. However," Mithllon indicated at Ulfric's bound leg, "I am wary of your injury. You will need to rest and recover. We will camp at night, delaying our arrival by another day." Had it been an adult, Mithllon would have disregarded the injury, for it was only a simple sprain. However, this was a child, and a Nordic jarl's son at that. An Altmer had to be the very soul of caution when found in the possession of a particularly powerful Nord's child in order to keep his head on his shoulders.

"Is that Dr-Drastíll?" Mithllon smiled in amusement as Ulfric struggled with the accents of the Elven name. The Nord's bright blue eyes were wide with awe as he gaped at the Elven horse, who snorted indifferently and tossed his mane in the breeze. The Altmer glared at his mount, who had a habit of flaunting his glistening pelt to mesmerized passer-bys. "I've never seen a horse like that in Daddy's stables."

"Aye, he is an Elvish horse. And a boastful one at that." Drastíll cast a steely glare at Mithllon, who served as a seven foot tall crutch for the youth. Ulfric hopped on his foot, eyes still fixated on Drastíll. He reached out a hand to the horse. Hesitantly, Drastíll sniffed it before brushing his velvety nose on the Nord's palm. The Nord quietly sighed as he stroked the horse's face.

"He's so smooth! And silky!"

Mithllon smirked as he lifted Ulfric onto the saddle before pulling himself up. He then took hold of Drastíll's reigns and tapped the horse's flank with his boots. The horse started in a trot through the woods, heading north.

They rode together on the Elvish horse for an hour, speaking not a word to each other. Mithllon enjoyed listening to the wildlife around them. The chirping of birds filled the chilly air of Skyrim. The occasional burst of leaves as a rabbit tore across the landscape in moments seemed to excite the Nord, who stared at the earth yearningly. It was obvious the child had not seen past the walls of Windhelm, nor encountered any of the wildlife teaming in Skyrim.

Unexpectedly, the Nord spoke: "Why are you in Skyrim?"

Mithllon paused at the question. What could he tell the child? That Summerset Isles was in shambles, his fellow Altmer brothers aching to sink their swords into Thalmor flesh before all their rights were taken away? That he had left his wife and children where his enemies lie so he could search for a new refuge in a distant country? That he himself boiled with such murderous energy he felt that even if he left a sea of Thalmor bodies behind his wake, his blood-thirst could not be quenched? Ah, but children were so naive of civil wars, and Nords knew nothing of foreign politics. Best if they remained distant to the elves and unknowing of the war brewing in Summerset Isles.

"I am traveling," he said simply. That did not seem to satisfy the boy, but he did not question further.

"Tell me, young king. What is your grand city like?" Mithllon already knew much about the city, but intended to keep the child preoccupied so the youth would not be so chatty at night. He had learned the skill long ago with his sons, Coredalf and Ganllon.

And so the day stretched on with Ulfric boasting about the grandeur halls inside the Palace of the Kings, the kind servants he spoke with everyday, and his parents. He mostly spoke of his father, who's might rivaled that of a great bear. He was a fierce leader and one not to cross during his lesser moods. Although the child spoke fondly of his father, Mithllon imagined what could happen if the "Bear of Eastmarch" discovered little injured Ulfric in the hands of an Altmer, he might see the reality from a different perspective. Although confident of his survival skills, Mithllon would rather not avoid bounty hunters for his entire visit to the Nordic country. His wife and children, after all, placed their trust in him to find another home, possibly in these iced mountains which lay far from Thalmor hands.

When the sun finally fell below the mountains and with Ulfric's audible yawn, Mithllon called for a halt at a small clearing bordered with thick, strong trees. As Ulfric slid down Drastíll, rubbing his eyes tiredly, he asked, "Can I start the fire?"

Mithllon already had arranged twigs and leaves proper for a campfire, his hands in mid-snap, when he prepared to light the fire with his magicka. He looked up at the boy and smiled, "Oh? And does the young king know how to start such a thing?"

Again, the child's chest swelled with pride as he answered with confidence, "Yes. The men taught me how last night."

Mithllon's brow furrowed at the mention of the cloaked strangers. It was obvious these cloaked men were responsible for the kidnapping of Ulfric. Although they had fled-Mithllon was certain they had been discovered and, in their panic, had disregarded Ulfric during their flight-it was certain they would search for the boy again, to use him as a bargaining chip or whatever dark scheme they had held in store for the youth. He would have to watch the boy more closely, and look deeper in the shadows.

"Mithllon?"

"Hm? Ah, yes, the fire." The Altmer stepped back, guesturing to the pile of wood at his feet. "Show me this skill you have acquired."

The boy bounced eagerly to the stack, withdrawing a small branch and a flat piece of wood. Propping the branch on top of the flattened wood and sandwiching the branch between his hands, Ulfric's face hardened with concentration. Then, with the branch between his palms, he rapidly rubbed his hands together, slowly pulling downward. Within several minutes, a spark burst in between the two pieces of wood, before maturing into a bright orange flame. Ulfric released a cry of triumph, throwing his hands up in the air. Unfortunately, the movement snuffed the flame out in a moment, leaving a trail of smoke in the air. His face turned into utter horror.

Mithllon chuckled silently to himself, making certain the Nord could not hear him. Ulfric bowed his head, eyes fixated on the ground, shoulders slumping in defeat. Mithllon ran his hand through the Nord's blond hair, saying, "Quite the success, your Majesty! That only took a matter of minutes." Ulfric's face turned red and he glared at the Altmer angrily. He scrambled-or rather, hopped-from under Mithllon's hand to the opposite side of the mound of wood before flopping himself onto the ground. The black-haired elf watched him thoughtfully for a moment.

"I was not mocking you, Ulfric. You did well for your first attempt, but grew too enthusiastic. Your flame was snuffed out, and you immediately gave up." Ulfric was silent, fingering the cast tied tightly to his ankle. Mithllon folded his arms and sighed, drawing out the last sentence in a patient tone, "Try again."

Ulfric shook his head, eyes still fixated on the dirt. "I don't want to anymore."

Mithllon sighed. He observed the firewood for a moment before creating a spark of his own in the palm of his hand. Ulfric jolted as the light touched his face, and his eyes widened. Mithllon smiled in amusement before casting the magical flame into the heap. The wood crackled instantly as the fire engulfed it with its own whisper of a breath. This was a mistake.

The Nord shrieked, scrambled to his feet, and began to run. He did not go far with a sprained ankle; he took only several leaps before falling onto the ground. The elf was behind him in seconds, but the Nord gasped and recoiled as if he was in pain. Mithllon opened his mouth to ask what was wrong when the realization struck him.

_"Mithllon, you fool,' _the Altmer growled to himself. He had forgotten the incident earlier that day with Ulfric's ankle.

"Y-you promised." Mithllon swallowed at the meekness of the Nord's terrified voice. He gapped at Ulfric. His blue eyes were wide and watery, and his lip quivered slightly. His knees were scraped and bleeding. He sniffled. "You even crossed your heart."

"I..." Mithllon began, and the Nord cringed at the Altmer's voice. Mithllon swallowed again.

How could he promise not to use magic? Magic was a natural part of an Altmer's life. Mithllon used it unconsciously every day. To ask an elf not to use magic was to ask a Nord not to drink ale. It was an impossible request.

"I hate you!" Mithllon expected the words to fall from the Nord lips, but the sting that followed after was not anticipated. His eyes fell to the ground as he slowly stepped away from the boy, who continued to sniffle. Not knowing what else to do, Mithllon retrieved packages of dried fruit and a loaf of bread from the packs tied to Drastíll's saddle before settling himself near Ulfric, whose eyes followed his every movement. The elf tore the bread in two, offering one half to the boy in hopes of a response.

The Nord gazed at the bread as if it was poison. Downhearted, Mithllon retracted his arm. Then, without warning, the child snatched it out of his grip with astonishing speed and began to nibble on it, blue eyes still glued on the elf. Mithllon gawked at Ulfric, arm still hanging in the air. There was an awkward stillness in the air before the youth cautiously crawled onto his blanket, shoving the last of his meal in his mouth. He laid down with his back to Mithllon, and then was still.

For an hour, the Altmer sat staring at Ulfric, watching as the Nord's breathing became slow and rhythmic with the pace of slumber. The elf refueled the fire before stuffing his untouched meal into his bags. He then settled himself against to Drastíll, who nuzzled him softly.

How would he cope with such a child? The boy was absolutely terrified of magic, which did not place the Altmer as the best guardian. He was not even sure if the Nord would listen to him anymore, which would be a troubling ordeal. He still had three more days with the youth, along with the possibility of kidnappers in search for Ulfric lingering on his mind. Mithllon sighed as his eyes grew heavy. What had he allowed himself to get into?


	3. Chapter 2: The Nord and Elf

Chapter 2: The Nord and Elf

"Ulfric."

The whisper was soft and soothing, the tone as smooth as liquid. Slowly it pulled at the boy's consciousness out from the realms of sleep. But the Nord threw an anchor into the warm chasm of slumber as he pulled himself deeper into the warmth of his blankets. He was not yet ready to rise from his soft bed and pad through the cold stone halls of his home. Five more minutes.

The voice came again, calling out his name with the same silky way. He felt a massive hand encase his shoulder and shake it gently. Ulfric mumbled in his sleep, shifting away from the touch. He stretched out his hand to gain purchase of more sheets to wrap himself up in. His hand touched something prickly, and he immediately retracted it. Slowly he opened his sleepy eyes to find a wall of pointy green sticks near his cheek. He shifted himself to a sitting position to discover it to be a floor of crisp grass. He fingered his blanket, remembering it rougher than what it had been yesterday. And were they not a multitude of colors instead of a bleak beige?

"Good morning, little king."

The memories flooded back to him like a roaring ocean, as he recalled the men, the tree root, the Altmer, the horse...and the magic. He lurched at the sound of Mithllon's voice and pulled the blanket closer around him, eyes searching for the familiar golden-skinned elf. When he found him, his blue eyes narrowed as he sucked his breath in.

Mithllon was extinguishing the fire with dirt, his golden arms partially exposed as his thin grey sleeves were pulled back. His straight black hair flowed down his shoulders like a blackened river, and his emerald eyes where fixated on Ulfric, although some of its mirth had disappeared. His thin lips curled in a friendly smile once he saw the boy awake. He stood, and Ulfric was reminded as to how incredibly tall Altmer where. His daddy was very tall, but Mithllon dwarfed him in comparison. The Altmer dusted off his hands and pulled out a small package from his pocket. He stepped towards Ulfric.

The Nord retracted; he remembered last night and how Mithllon had broken his promise by using magic. His father was right: do not be so trusting towards elves. Ulfric wanted the elf to know this.

And it seemed Mithllon did. His smile wavered once he saw the boy's sudden movement, but he continued walking toward him in long strides. Kneeling down to Ulfric, he handed the youth the package. "Here is breakfast, little one."

Ulfric swallowed as he stared at the bag, then back to Mithllon. He did not want to reach out and grab it, although he was terribly hungry. Mithllon sighed as he placed the package on the ground next to him before turning away to tend to Drastíll. Ulfric looked at the horse, whose deep brown eyes bore into the child. Ulfric quickly looked away, reaching the curious package that Mithllon had officially deemed "breakfast". It seemed rather small, even to a seven-year-old Nord. He opened it to find squishy wrinkled blobs, smelling remarkably sweet. He regarded the blobs quizically, which did not hold the most appetizing appearance. He cast a quick glance at Mithllon to see if the Altmer was looking. The elf had his back turned to Ulfric, occupied with tightening the ropes on the bags tied to Drastíll's saddle.

He took a tiny bit into an orange blob. It was juicy and sweet, the flavors tickling the child's tongue. He chewed on it contently, swallowing it all too soon. Quickly he tossed another in his mouth, savoring the juices and taste as he twirled it around in his mouth with his tongue. It tasted better than any sweet he had been given at the Palace of Kings. He eagerly shoved his sticky fingers into the pack once more to fill his stomach with the delicious sweets.

In minutes, the package was empty, and Ulfric stared at the bottom, regretting the fact he did not eat each more slowly. Running his tongue over his teeth, the youth stared at Mithllon, who was watching him intently, The Nord had forgotten his fear of the elf and asked, "What was that?"

The elf's eyes glittered and he answered with a chuckle, "Dried elvish fruit. It is abundant in our markets and a local sweet to many children."

Ulfric licked his lips, tasting the last of the sweet food, before exclaiming, "It was yummy."

Mithllon smiled as he pulled the blanket off Ulfric, passing him the waterskin. As the boy swallowed down his meal with the help of water, Mithllon made several adjustments with his supplies before holding out his hand to Ulfric. "Come," he announced, "we must continue our journey if we wish to cross half of Eastmarch."

* * *

This time, Ulfric did not hesitate to take the elf's hand; the sweets he was given had lifted his spirits and slightly altered his perception of Mithllon. Drastíll shifted beneath the Nord's legs as Mithllon grabbed hold of the horse's reigns and beckoned him forward. The horse jumped at the command, and the group sped through the trees, the birds chirping at their departure.

Minutes later, when the sun had fully exposed itself from behind the mountains, Ulfric looked behind his shoulder to stare at the elf. "What is your home like?"

Still staring forward at their course, Mithllon smiled in memory and answered, "It is very sunny and warm most days. The sky is always clear and a fellow Altmer can always hear the roar of the sea. There are many birds that sing their songs in Summerset Isle, but their tunes and voices are different of those in Skyrim. Unlike your home, which is white and foggy many days, Summerset Isles remains green during every season. The most particualar memory I have is the smell of magic fires and lightning."

"Magic has a smell?"

"Oh yes. It smells much different from your wood-fueled fires. Firstly, we have no smoke, for our fire requires the energy of the caster to continue burning. It holds a fresher smell. Many Altmer mistresses mix incense with their flames to make their house smell of leaves or fruit."

"What does your mommy mix with your fire?"

Mithllon chuckled. "I do not live with my mother anymore, but she sported the scent of cinnamon with a dull red fire. My wife favors a more evergreen aroma along with a bright green. She said it-" He paused, making certain he said no more. His eyes lowered at the thought of his family. _She said it reminds her of my sparkling green eyes._

"What do you do for work?" Mithllon was grateful for the child's enthusiastic river of questions to keep him occupied of the dull ache in the elf's chest.

"I am a fisherman. My brother and I own a boat, and we hold weekly trips to catch fish."

Ulfric wrinkled his nose, eyebrows crunched in puzzlement. "That is it?"

Mithllon rose his eyebrows in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"My daddy said that Altmer are all very strict and they make sure their homes are spotless and make sure Nords aren't living there and kick them out. He said they go to long, boring meetings and read books all the time."

Mithllon frowned. "Your father said that?"

"Well, he didn't say the meetings were long and boring, but he said all the rest."

Mithllon soured. The Thalmor were taking their very identity away, replacing it with strict, unnecessary rules and regulations and transforming the Altmer into snobbish, overconfident librarians. They were proud warriors, skilled with the centuries of knowledge and wisdom, and honest souls! Mithllon grinded his teeth together as he felt his stomach boil with hatred. He felt an overpowering sense to burn the entire forest down to expose the Altmer's fury.

"Mithllon?" But then his anger faded immediately at the soft, innocent voice of a wide, bright blue eyed Nord. He loosened the tension in his jaw and forced a smile.

"Ah, we are not all like that. We work, grow food, have families, just as you Nords do. We certainly posses a different approach on tasks with the assistance of magic, but we live with the same needs as Nords."

Ulfric stared at the passing wildlife with a curious expression set on his features. "You know," he began, holding a recognizable voice of unexpected wisdom, "magic does not seem as bad as Daddy said it was."

Mithllon cocked his head to the side and whispered, "Oh? Even at the hands of terrifying Mithllon?" He poked playfully at the boy's ribs, who shrieked and giggled, squirming madly. Drastíll snorted in annoyance when the youth's foot struck his neck.

Once Ulfric's laughter died down, he answered in complete, utter honesty: "If there was one elf who used magic, I'd trust you the most."

Mithllon gaped at the boy; never had he expected such words, especially by the lips of a Nord. His chest swelled with unexpected and conflicting emotions as again he was reminded of his family. His lips quivered as he smiled and said, "I am honored by your words."

And so the day went on with recollection of Elven homes and Nordic ways.


	4. Chapter 3: Bear

Chapter 3: Bear

It was Ulfric's third day with Mithllon, and the Nord had learned more of Summerset Isles than he had ever dreamt of. The Altmer filled their seemingly tiresome and uneventful journey with fascinating tales of magical battles, epic adventures lasting over decades, and incredible stories of his ancestors. Ulfric was enthralled by Mithllon's words, spellbound to the times in which ancient Altmer knew nothing of humans, filling their centuries with knowledge and strength. He learned of the many schools and varieties of magic, learning of the difficulty of each spell and the energy and focus required to cast them. At this point, Ulfric caught himself imagining casting fireballs into the bellies of his enemies rather than cracking their skulls with his mighty axe, like Nordic tradition.

However, Ulfric was a child and could only be amused by stories for so long. His third day stuck on top of a massive elvish horse without much movement filled him with energy. He could not burn off his vigor while he was on the ground either, for his cast rendered him immobile and Mithllon would not have him even lean on his sprained ankle. Ulfric had voiced his complaints to the Altmer, who had informed him of 'only' two more days of traveling. Then Ulfric could see his parents once again and look upon the familiar sights of his home. He would be welcomed with a feast of food and drink as Windhelm celebrated the jarl's son's return.

Ulfric squirmed in Mithllon's hold at the thought of water. His face turned red as he looked back at the elf.

"I have to go," he mumbled. Drastíll snorted at the Nord's voice, neighing at Mithllon in distress as he understood the Nord's natural need to relieve himself. The horse wasn't too keen with the boy sitting on top of him at the moment with such a thing in mind.

Mithllon realized the look of urgency on Ulfric's face and quickly leaped off of Drastíll, keeping Ulfric in a tight hold before gently settling him down. The boy hopped to a nearby bush, glaring at the Altmer once he reached it. Mithllon swiftly turned and strode away, giving the youth his privacy.

Once Ulfric had finished his task, he shuffled out from the cover of the bush, hopping back towards the spot where Drastíll and Mithllon where waiting for him. Or at least he thought. A child was unfamiliar with the woods, and could easily become lost. He rounded the corner of a crop of trees to find no horse or elf. Retracing his steps, he turned around another group of trees. Again, there stood no elf and his horse. Ulfric had realized the woods had become rather silent, the chirps of birds dying down as the flutter of wings filled the sky. He swallowed as a chill entered his body.

"Mithllon?" he whispered in a meek voice, his voice echoing throughout the woods. There was no response; not even the crack of a twig or the whisper of wildlife around him. His heartbeat grew faster as the wind howled eerily through the trees, their branches crashing against each other at the force of the air.

"Mithllon?" he said again, with a loud, shaky voice. His eyes darted to each shadow, his breath coming in panicked gasps. "Mithllon!?"

A sudden crack caused him to turn, and Ulfric saw a form behind the trees. He heaved a sigh of relief.

"Mithllon, I thought I lost you-"

The hair at the back of Ulfric's neck sudden prickled and he felt the warmth of his Nordic blood completely drain away. His knees felt weaker than water, and his bones turned cold and stiff. His mouth fell open to release the scream coiling around his throat, but his stiff chest constricted the expansion of his lungs, resulting in a quick, short croak.

The shadow was nearly nine feet tall, its massive shoulders broader than Drastíll, and muscles the size of tree stumps. The fur on its skin was darker than the most starless night, and its golden eyes gleamed hungrily from behind its massive skull. It opened its jaw, revealing a row of sharp, glistening teeth, coated in slime that remained attached to it expanding mouth, stretching into long glittering streaks of saliva. It released a roar in which shook the child's spine, its volume banging against his ears as it thundered through the trees and echoed into the mist. Ulfric collapsed as his limbs quivered, finally expelling a shriek of his own, sounding nothing more than wind in the air as the bear's lungs over-powered his own.

The bear crashed onto its colossal paws, charging the boy as it gave a harrowing roar, the ground trembling with each collision of the bear's paws into the soft earth. Ulfric wrapped his arms around his head, fingers curling over his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He felt his body quake along with the earth, his head numb and cold as he was forced to listen to the horrifying crashes of branches snapping and leave crunching. The bear's heaves of breath grew louder until he could finally smell the rotten stench of the bear's last meal, its hot, misty coating swathing over him like a wave, its saliva splattering onto his arms.

And then Ulfric heard it. The high-pitched whistle of _something _slicing through the air resounded above him, a soft thud following thereafter. There was a agonized shriek and the warmth of the bear's breath disappeared. The ground thudded behind him as the pained roars continued, loud, sudden, and crazed. Ulfric felt arms coil around him and was lifted. Cool air whipped across his face, objects whizzing by his head with inhuman speed. Just as he opened his eyes to see what was happening to him, he was tossed gracefully onto a pile of soft dirt and leaves, crunching beneath his backside. Blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the scene, Ulfric's jaw fell once the sight finally touched his consciousness.

Yards away, the mighty, terrifying giant of a bear howled with rage and agony, a long, transparent spear etched into its hide, painting it with long streaks of crimson. It tossed its head about, snapping its jaws as it eyes blazed with fury. It's cry echoed through the trees, causing the leaves to shudder, The bear, however, suddenly did not seem nearly as nightmarish as the elf standing before it.

It was something Ulfric had never seen in the Altmer. He was not angry, and his teeth did not gnash at his enemy. He was not snarling or roaring with anger, and his chest was not heaving with the energy boiling inside of it. His arms did not tremble, and his breath did not falter. He seemed completely calm, in fact. And then Ulfric saw his eyes. There was something unspeakable brewing inside the emerald orbs, among the many emotions of anger, hatred, and fear. The air turned chilling and suffocating as the Nord realize he could not tear his eyes away from Mithllon. His bones felt as if they would crack under the strain of fear and coldness, and his blood might burst from his skin from the rapid thundering of his heart. As his mind began to twist in a craze of panic, Ulfric finally managed to name the unspeakable thing in Mithllon's eyes. His father had only explained it to him once. It was the emotion that brought entire kingdoms down, and sent the bravest of soldiers running in uncontrolled panic. It was what separated man from beast, the emotion that drove the very heart of destruction. It was what killed every man, in every unjust battle. _Blood thirst._

Mithllon's very soul was immersed in the hunger for battle, and his eyes were the windows to his soul. The bear must have sensed it, for its shrieking ceased for just a moment and it _froze-_its entire body went rigged and stiff, unmoving as it stared at the elf. Then, Mithllon flicked his hand, a simple twitch of the wrist. The transparent spear shifted for a moment then went still. A crackling sound emerged from within the bear as the spear suddenly burst into shards. There was a short, high-pitched whine that was immediately cut off by a disturbing gurgling sound. The bear collapsed without warning, its body colliding with the earth with a final, solid _thud. _

There was a moment of cold silence, when air was still stiff with tension and Mithllon's eyes held the murderous glare. But slowly, the forest regained its warmth, and the wind shifted the leaves ever so slightly. The blood thirst died in Mithllon's eyes, but still held its cold indifference as the Altmer shifted to peer at the bear. However, despite the calmness that immediately took the trees once again, a sweltering sea of panic churned inside Ulfric's belly. The young boy began to breathe, but they were short, uneven breaths, and his lungs were not receiving the proper amount of oxygen. Ulfric curled in a tight ball as he gasped through each breath, tears streaming down his eyes as he collapsed on one side.

Mithllon turned, his sleek black hair flying with the sudden movement. The coldness finally sank completely away from the Altmer as he ran toward the Nord, crouching over him and prying him out of his fetal position. He suddenly embraced the Nord, who latched desperately onto Mithllon as the tears poured down his cheeks. Mithllon whispered comforting words, instructing Ulfric to take slow, deep breaths. The Nord trembled with each exhale, feeling his muscles loosen with each quiver. The shaking caused his arms to go sore. Finally, the gateways opened, and the river broke out.

He wailed into the dark cloth of Mithllon's tunic, shoulders shaking with each sob. The cloth covering his face became soaked after a minute, and his skin grew cold. The little boy immersed himself in the warmth of the Altmer's arms, listening to Mithllon's own beating heart as the elf's fingers combed through the boy's blonde hair. The thrums of his heart were rapid, but Ulfric knew it wasn't due to fear. The elf couldn't possibly be afraid.

Mithllon was never afraid.


End file.
